Lullaby for a Harlequin
by Mertiya
Summary: Doctor Quinzel has always wanted to help people. When she lands her dream job at Arkham Asylum, though, is she biting off more than she can chew?  Alternate origin story for Harley Quinn. Fairly strong adult themes.
1. A Job Offer

**Disclaimer: **Unsurprisingly, I don't own Batman, or the Joker, or Harley, or anything.

**A/N: **I've been obsessing about Harley and the Joker a fair amount lately, for whatever reason, so I felt I needed to try my hand at a slightly different Harley Quinn origin story. It always rang a little false to me-the way she started out with an M.D. and then ended up as the Joker's ditzy moll. And she's always portrayed as *so* stupid...Well, this is my different origin story. My apologies if Harleen seems out of character-that is sort of the point. Constructive criticism welcome but please no flames or I will make sad puppy-dog eyes. Also-with regards to the rating: there is nothing explicit in this story. There are, however, strong adult themes in one of the later chapters. Please use discretion! (I'll make a note on that chapter as well.)**  
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**Part I: A Job Offer**

The phone rang in the darkened apartment. Harleen groaned and rolled over, staring vaguely at the ceiling, blinking sleep out of her eyes. Why was she awake again? The phone rang again, and this time she groped for it, but her hand caught the top and knocked the receiver from the table. She rolled over and made a few half-hearted motions. Finally, she managed to bring it to her ear.

"Hello?" she mumbled.

"Dr. Quinzel?"

The voice was cool and professional. Harleen struggled to waken herself, but her voice cracked with sleep as she replied. "Yes, speaking."

"Ah. Well, Dr. Quinzel, I'm happy to tell you that we'd like to offer you a job at Arkham Asylum."

All the sleep flew out of her head, to be replaced by a blank astonishment. For a long moment she felt nothing, and then excitement surged through her. "Oh—" she said. "Yes—thank you."

"If you could give us a call back in the next week or so, telling us your decision—"

"I want the job," she blurted, her hand shaking, her knuckles white on the receiver. "Thanks. I—thank you."

There was a pause. The voice, sounding faintly surprised, spoke again, "This is Arkham Asylum. Arkham? In Gotham?"

"Yes, I know," she responded, a little puzzled.

"Well, if you're sure, then we'll send you a follow-up e-mail; you'll be able to start work in a few days."

"Thank you!" she squeaked again. Setting the phone down, she flopped back on the bed, her insides churning with excitement. She hadn't really dared to hope; for a resident fresh out of medical school to get exactly the job she wanted…she hugged herself and reached under the bed to pull out her old worn stuffed bear. "Hiya, Mistah Cuddles," she grinned, allowing herself to lapse back into her old accent. "Guess what? Harleen's goin' ta be a real doctor!"

Several days later, she agonized in front of her closet over what to wear. _I want to look professional, but not intimidating_, she thought. From what she knew, Arkham was a garbage dump, a place to throw the people no one else could deal with, a place, Harleen thought, that everybody liked to forget about. Her brief interactions with the staff had already left her with a deep distaste for them. They didn't care about anyone—not their patients, and not the people who had been harmed by said patients. They were just in it for the money—the reputation. Well, Harleen wasn't going to be one of them. She was going into this because she wanted to help people. To save them. To remake their shattered minds and from there, remake the shattered world they left in their wake.

She picked the black trousers and white blouse. Professional and as far from feminine as she could. Glancing at herself in the mirror, she saw a cool young woman with dark circles barely visible beneath her blue eyes and blond hair carefully pinned up out of her face.

"Okay, Harls," she said to herself, using one of her mother's old nicknames for her. "You can do this."

She arrived at Arkham exactly on time and was directed to the office of Dr. Rickner, the head of administration. He barely glanced up at her.

"Name?" he said, in a bored tone of voice.

"Harleen Quinzel—this is my first day."

"Uh-huh. Okay, looks like your first interview is at ten. You've got time before then to pick up the keys for your office and get your photo taken for your photo ID. You'll want Key Services."

Dr. Rickner shuffled briefly through his desk, then handed Harleen a stack of folders. "These are your dossiers, you'll be working with some basic cases at first until you get the hang of it."

"All right. I'll do my best."

The fervor in her voice made Rickner look up at last. Though he was jaded in the extreme from his long tenure at Arkham, something about the calm idealism of her face sent a brief spark of pity through his rather dried up heart. "Dr. Quinzel," he said.

"Yes?" She turned at the doorway.

He raised a laconic eyebrow at her. "Don't let them smell fear."

She gave a false little laugh. "Dr. Rickner, I promise you I'm qualified to handle the patients here."

"Oh," he said, with a wry cough. "I didn't mean the _patients_."

By lunchtime, Harleen was beginning to appreciate what Dr. Rickner had meant. The senior staff at the asylum were standoffish and brusque, the junior staff were derisive—several times she had already had to fend off unwanted advances from Dr. Sterling—and the orderlies spent their time trying to play stupid practical jokes on her.

The interview at ten didn't go too badly. Granted, the patient didn't say anything to her and seemed vastly more interested in the ceiling than in any of her carefully phrased, welcoming questions, but on the other hand, he didn't become violent or agitated, so Harleen was inclined to count it as a success. Her next interview was at one, and was supposed to be supervised by one of the senior staff.

"Great," she mumbled into her sandwich at the corner of the cafeteria. "I'm back in high school, and I'm gettin' graded."

She knew, of course, how short-staffed Arkham was, and how badly she would have to do to be given a really bad report, but she was still nervous. Her fears were not allayed when Dr. Sterling, with a smirk, handed her a note saying that her supervisor had been delayed and the room and the interviewee had been changed.

She glanced down the sheet, realized with dismay that she didn't have a dossier on the patient in question and turned to ask Sterling, but he had already vanished. Typical. He was probably hoping to make her look bad. Glancing at her watch, she decided she didn't have time to get the patient's file from Rickner, but she managed to find one of the asylum's beat-up old computers and did a quick once-over from the basic search results. Homicidal tendencies…who didn't have those in here? Manic delusions, obsessive personality, sadistic sense of humor. Sounded like a real charmer. Well, she'd see what she could do in this session and then see if she couldn't find out whether anyone had put him on medication yet, since from her (albeit short) experience here, it seemed as if everyone was woefully undermedicated.

She took one last deep breath before heading off in the direction of the interview. To her surprise, it was in the basement of Arkham, which she'd thought was where the most dangerous patients were kept. But if they were letting her down here already, she must have been wrong.

She had to pass two security checkpoints. The guards down here, who hadn't seen her, raised their eyebrows at her, but let her past, and to her surprise, Sterling was waiting for her.

"I thought you were going to be late," he said snidely.

"I'm never late," Harleen said shortly. "What are you doing here?"

He put on a wounded look. "I'm just trying to help you out. Everybody's been putting bets on our talented new recruit. Your next interview is in room 3A."

"Um…thanks," Harleen said, eying him suspiciously. He smiled at her.

"I've gotten the room _all_ set up and everything. It's just this way."

He took her elbow in a way she wasn't at all sure she approved of and steered her over to a room, where a harassed-looking security guard was talking rapidly into his intercom. He blinked at them as they arrived.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Harleen said. "I'm Doctor Harleen Quinzel, and I'm supposed to be speaking with a patient in this room?"

"Yes…oh, Doctor Sterling," he said, looking at her companion. "Are you sure these orders are correct? I was under the impression that—"

"Yes, yes," Sterling said. "I'll take care of it. Just let Dr. Quinzel in, will you?"

"All right…" the orderly said. He pocketed his walkie-talkie with another nervous glance and unlocked the cell. "In you go, Miss. And do be careful."

Harleen almost reproved him for calling her 'Miss,' but decided against it. Even if it was a little sexist, it was politer than anyone else had been all day.

"Thank you," she said, and stepped inside. The door swung shut with a heavy clang, and suddenly there was a knife pressed across her throat.


	2. Interview with a Madman

**A/N:** So yesterday I actually got hold of a copy of _Mad Love_ to read, meaning that instead of using Wikipedia as the source for Harley's origin, I actually got to read the origin. I still think it's got a few problems-well, not problems so much as I'd like to see it done a different way. Because either it appears to be implying that she just has a college degree, or that she slept her way to a higher degree, like an M.D. or a master's. Because in order to be a practicing psychologist/psychiatrist you need at least a master's (granted, I know that this is _Gotham_ but it is still part of the U.S.!) I just don't think somebody could sleep her way to a degree higher than a college degree (particularly in this day & age). Also I just kind of like the idea of Harley starting out as a really good person. So take this is an AU exploration of a different _before_ Harleen who somehow ends up as the same _after_ Harleen.**  
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**Part II: Interview with a Madman**

The Joker was bored. Really, stupendously, awfully bored. He'd spent the morning devising a formula for a poison gas that would kill everyone within a five-mile radius and then decided it was dull. If _everybody_ died, who'd be around to appreciate all the work? Besides, it wasn't funny.

It was just getting stale inside Arkham. Batman never paid him visits anymore, and all his psychiatrists were grouchy old men without the humor to laugh at somebody slipping on a banana peel. It was getting about time for him to break out. At least then he'd have a direct line to ol' Batsy.

Goodbye to his home comforts. Ah, well. He spent the next couple of hours planning how he would get past the dividing wall separating him from his interrogator, with a little time devoted to putting together a serviceable knife. This should be a good one.

One o' clock. Voices outside the cell. Excellent. He ran his tongue carefully over his lips, chuckling inside at the joke he was going to play on—who was he supposed to be seeing today? He couldn't remember. Oh, well. They were all the same anyways.

The door began to open and he moved toward it, even as he felt the sinking feeling of disappointment deep in his stomach. It wasn't fair! They hadn't even put _up_ the glass wall! He'd looked forward to talking the man into putting it down himself, or maybe just deactivating it from range and seeing the shocked look on his face as the Joker bore down on him. Oh, well. Served him right for having expectations. With a sigh of boredom, he reached out and grabbed the person who had walked through the door, meaning to slit his throat and have done with it.

The arm he threw across the person's torso landed on something soft and squishy. Surprised, he let the knife waver as he squeezed it. Instantly, she turned around and slapped him hard across the mouth.

"Mr.—" she consulted her clipboard. "—Joker! That was _quite_ uncalled for! And you shouldn't have a knife! Who gave that to you? It's completely against regulations! Someone could get hurt!"

He gaped at her. She was about five-feet-two-inches of female wrath. She had _slapped_ him! _No one_ slapped the Joker! He took an angry step toward her, meeting, for the first time, her two large blue eyes. Startled, unnerved, but not fearful. Blue eyes in a pale face beneath neatly pinned blond hair that was now attempting to escape from its pins. For a moment, his heart stopped and—_he was holding her close, whispering sweet nothings in her ear, stroking her pregnant stomach—_then he realized several things. One, this appeared to be his psychiatrist for the day, and she was neither male nor old. Two, she did not appear frightened of him. The Joker chortled to himself. This held the potential to be a very _entertaining_ situation. Not to mention—the joke was on him! He began to laugh. Things were looking up.

By all rights, Harleen should have been terrified. In some vague, distant corner of her mind, she knew that objectively, facing down a madman brandishing a knife was supposed to be terrifying. But that meek, sensible part of her was overwhelmed by an angry voice shouting in her head that _Sterling set this up, the bastard!_ and _Never let them see you afraid! _and the not-quite-so-angry voice that whispered, _What if I can help?_ Between all of those voices, the scared voice simply wasn't loud enough for her to pay attention to.

She took a deep breath. "I think we'd better start over," she said to the man who was now slumped over, giggling, on the floor. "Hand me the knife, if you please."

He looked up at her, a dangerous glitter in his eyes. "The knife," she said again, putting out her hand, and he meekly handed it to her, just clumsily enough that a little line of red opened up beneath the base of her thumb and bled a few drops.

"Oops," he said. "Sorry."

"Thank you," she said, looking for a place to put it down and realizing that there really wasn't a way for her to do that, since she didn't want him to pick it up. "Now. First things first. I know this isn't exactly the thing for a doctor to say to her patient, but I'd _really_ appreciate it if you'd keep your hands to yourself. I've had more than enough pawing from people in this asylum; I don't need the inmates to start as well."

The Joker's face darkened. They'd been touching her, then. Those boring, grubby old men. And someone had sent her in here without setting the glass wall up in advance. And suddenly, he felt his usual manic grin spreading over his face. Oh, what a joke it would be, against those supercilious old snobs! The Clown Prince of Crime was back in business, and he had a lovely new angel. No, a lovely new _angle_.

"I'm sorry," he said contritely. "I wasn't aware you were female—it was an unfortunate accident. Please accept my sincerest apologies."

Harleen, surprised, pulled out her reading glasses to check his file—and then remembered that she didn't have it. Well—never mind, carry on then.

"Apology accepted," she said smoothly. "What say we take this little chat over to the couch?"

Somebody knocked on the door. "Miss?" called the security guard who had let her in. "Are you all right in there?"

"Just fine, thank you!" she called sweetly. "Everything is fine! If you please, Mr. Joker," she said, gesturing toward the couch on the other side of the room.

"Of course," he responded agreeably. As they crossed the room, he paused to pull out the chair in front of the desk for her. She looked at him, startled again, and then sat.

"Thank you," she said.

He nodded and crossed the room to the couch upholstered in purple leather, then seated himself on it.

Harleen waited until he looked comfortable, then pulled out her notebook and tried to pull out her pencil. She nearly dropped it when her hands abruptly started shaking. "First day jitters," she said apologetically. "Now. Mr…Joker, it says here?" She made a show of checking her nonexistent file. His eyes seemed to follow her uncomfortably closely, and she got the sense that he wasn't fooled.

But he didn't call her on it. He leaned back. "That's right," he said comfortably.

"Do you prefer to go by your alias, then?"

"Oh…names." The Joker waved a long-fingered hand. "Who needs 'em?"

"It's just that…I feel we would talk better if we could come up with something a little less…impersonal. I want you to feel that you can confide in me, after all."

"What's _your_ name?" the Joker asked. "Fair's fair, after all."

"Oh! Excuse me. I'm Doctor Harleen Quinzel. If you prefer, you may call me Harleen."

"Well, Doctor Quinzel, I don't know that we're quite on first name terms yet…"

"Of course, if you feel that way…"

"Still, I wouldn't like you to feel uncomfortable. How about Doctor Q?"

Harleen allowed herself a small smile. Kind of cute. "Can I call you Mister J, then?"

He chuckled. "All right, why not?"

"All right, Mister J. Now then. Why don't you tell me why you're in here?"

He smiled at her. "I'm here because I like it. It's homey."

She fielded her brief flash of surprise. "Yes, of course. I'm…glad you feel that way. In…that case, is there anything you'd like to talk about? What does _home_ mean to you?"

The Joker smiled and reached into the filing cabinets of his mind for something suitably heartwrenching, then began to talk in great detail about his sadly abused childhood. God, he was good at this. _He_ almost felt sorry for the little bugger. And who knew, it _might_ be true.

Harleen watched the relaxed posture, the glibness of his words, the set of his eyes on her face—the perfect picture of truth. _He's lying._

At the end of the hour, she put a stop to his verbiage. "Thank you for that, Mister J. I hope it made you feel better. And I hope that maybe another day you'll feel comfortable enough with me to tell me the truth."

The Joker felt rage coursing up through his veins. Supercilious little _minx_! How _dare_ she! He wanted to take her by the arms and wipe that superior little smile right off her face! But—if he did that—he'd be stuck with a grouchy old man to look at. Even from an aesthetic point of view, that just didn't appeal. And then she paused at the door. "That probably sounded glib," she said. "I didn't really mean it to. I really do want to help." She smiled at him, a nervous little smile, and he simply stared after her as the door closed behind her. He had a very strong impulse to slam his head against the wall until the sight of those blue eyes was blotted out beneath the fierce pain. He didn't know why.

Harleen exited the cell, slightly at war with herself. Probably sociopathic, she sighed. It would be nigh-impossible to rehabilitate a sociopath. But she had to try. It was her job, and more than that, it was her calling.

"Doctor Quinzel, _what_ were you doing in there?"

She looked up, bewildered, into a livid face she only recognized because she had taken care that she would know the face of the head of Arkham Asylum, Doctor Jeremiah Arkham. She managed a little choking noise before collecting herself.

"I…beg your pardon, Doctor?" she asked.

"Who authorized you to interview the Joker?"

"I…I was told that I was supposed to be interviewing someone in this room…" she said weakly. Already she was realizing that Sterling had set her up to get into trouble.

"The Joker is Arkham Asylum's most well-known and baffling patient, _Doctor Quinzel_. If you think that a half-rate little newcomer will be able to add anything to our current theories, you are much mistaken. And I assure you that if you are trying to pad your resume, it has _not_ gone as you desired. I am putting you on indeterminate suspension. Don't bother to come in tomorrow."

"Y-yes, sir, I'm sorry, sir," Harleen gulped, and then she fled, tears springing to her eyes as she wondered how she had managed (_again_, screamed a little voice in her brain) to screw up all her hopes and dreams.


	3. Gotham's Golden Girl

**A/N: **Not too much to say. Hope you enjoy it! =D**  
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**Part III: Gotham's Golden Girl**

The phone rang in her darkened apartment. Harleen, cuddled up to her teddy-bear with a half-eaten carton of melted ice-cream clutched in her hand, moved sluggishly to answer it.

"Hello?" she said softly.

"Doctor Quinzel?" It sounded like Rickner.

"Yes?" she asked dully, feeling the prick of panic inside her chest. _Oh god, I've been fired now, my father was right, I'll never amount to anything…_

"Doctor Arkham wishes you to come in right away."

"He—he does?" No matter how unprofessional it sounded, the question burst from her anyway.

"Yes, Doctor. There's a slight wrinkle with one of the patients, and he feels that—" There was a brief pause, and the sound of something smashing in the background. Somebody shouted something that sounded suspiciously like, "Dear god, make it stop!"

"Sorry about that," Rickner said. His voice sounded nervous. "Doctor Arkham feels you would be best suited to handle this particular…wrinkle."

"Yes, of course, I'll be right there," Harleen said. As she hung up, she heard someone in the background yell, "For god's sake, tell her to hurry!"

She ran three red lights and didn't drive below ten miles over the speed limit the whole way. _They wanted her back._ She _wasn't_ useless. Somebody _needed_ her.

The first thing she saw when she pulled into the parking lot was three ambulances. The second thing she saw was the guy in the bat costume. Harleen slammed on her brakes and practically threw herself out of her old Nissan.

"What's going on?" she asked breathlessly, running up to the door.

"Are you Doctor Quinzel?" Batman asked grimly.

"I—yes, that's me. I'm her. Yes."

"I'm not sure if you should go in there."

"What's wrong—what's happened?"

"The Joker has Doctor Arkham tied up to a chair and is demanding that you be sent in."

Harleen took a deep breath. "I spoke to him yesterday. That means he's practically my patient. And I can do this."

Batman regarded her with a pointed stare. "Are you sure about that, Doctor?"

_God. Damn. It. Does nobody, anywhere, think I am competent at anything?_

"I am one hundred percent sure of that, Mr. _Batman_," she said, and she shouldered him aside and made her way into the building.

The Joker was lolling on Doctor Arkham's desk, playing with a knife that looked identical to the one she had confiscated from him the day before. He grinned when she entered—or rather, his already wide grin seemed to grow wider. Doctor Arkham was tied up, bruised and bloodied, but mostly intact.

"Ah, Doctor Q!" the Joker greeted her. "Just the person I was hoping to see!"

Harleen took a deep breath. "I told you that you shouldn't have a knife," she said steadily. "Also, I have to say I don't think much of your manners. Untie Doctor Arkham immediately."

"Aw, Doctor," grumbled the Joker. "We're just playing."

"Mister…"

"Mister J?"

"Yes, all right, Mister J. This behavior is…atrocious. Why would you threaten one of the people who's trying to help you?"

"Because I'm bored, sweetheart. And because I don't like him. I want _you_ to be my doctor."

Unexpectedly, she felt a pang of sympathy smite her. All of these _doctors_ who only wanted to interview the Joker for a chance to prove some theory, or make a name for themselves, or…None of them just trying to _help_ him. _Everyone_ deserved proper help.

"Well—this isn't the way to go about it," she said, a little lamely. "Of course I can be your doctor—if Doctor Arkham agrees to it—"

"I agree!" gasped Doctor Arkham from his chair.

"Wonderful!" the Joker said, casually spinning the knife.

"But you can't _do_ this to people," she said, wondering at herself for saying something there was simply no way he'd understand. "I mean," she tried to cover for herself. "You won't gain anything this way. Not in the long run."

He winked at her. "Well," he said slowly. "I'll gain _you_. That's worth having."

_Me? Worth having?_ The thoughts were out before her brain registered them. _Careful there, girl. He's a charming sociopathic madman._

"I'm glad you feel that way," she said smoothly. "Will you please untie Doctor Arkham?"

"Of course." With a quick motion, the Joker slashed through the ropes binding the head of staff to his chair, and then he flipped the knife so that it spun end over end through the air, to land firmly embedded in the floor between Harleen's feet.

The Joker held out his hands, wrists crossed. "Take me away," he laughed.

* * *

><p>Harleen reached for the coffee sitting on the by-now-slightly-damp square of newspaper on her apartment coffee-table. She was exhausted. Half her time every day was spent answering questions, doing research and trying to avoid reporters. Somehow, overnight, she had become famous.<p>

"Gotham's golden girl," some of the papers called her, and a bewildered Harleen tried to explain that she was just doing her job.

"The Joker's girlfriend," some of the staff at the asylum said (when they thought she wasn't listening) and made rude gestures behind her back. She didn't confront them, afraid that the Joker might find out somehow, afraid that he would exact bloody retribution, or perhaps, a small corner of her mind chided, afraid that he wouldn't care at all?

_She_ knew she was nothing special. She was coming to know the Joker better and better, as the other half of her time was spent with him. He was a pathological liar—no, that wasn't fair. He was a pathological _believer_. He believed whatever he happened to tell himself, and he ran through moods faster than a small child runs through different flavors of lollipop. He had been never-failingly polite and gentlemanly to her, though, and when she was constantly bombarded from all sides with judgments and catcalls and jeering, when she was always talking until her voice was hoarse, always trying to escape the press of a crowd of people, it was such a relief to slide into the Joker's cell, where no one else was allowed and to talk to just one sympathetic person.

She knew she had said too much to him, knew she had let slip too much about her past. Of course he didn't care; he was just gathering ammunition for his eventual—eventual something. He was tiring of her, she could see it in the careless glazing-over of his eyes, the lackluster sound of his laugh when she tried to make a feeble joke, the slowness of his muscles when he pulled the chair out for her to sit on.

She didn't want him to tire of her.

Of course she didn't. She had to be making _some_ kind of headway, she thought desperately. At least with the Joker so absorbed with her, he wasn't out of Arkham creating havoc.

Just last week he had strolled out and gone down to the local coffee shop, brandishing a gun, and demanded "ONE TRIPLE-CHOCOLATE LATTE!" at the top of his voice. The near-fainting barista handed him one; he promptly turned around and left, then made his way back to Arkham in a hijacked bus in time for his afternoon appointment with her. It was crazy. _He_ was crazy.

_Get some sleep, Harleen_, she told herself. _You can't solve anything if you're too tired to think straight._

The coffee-cup fell from her fingers as she toppled backwards onto the couch, exhaustion washing over her.


	4. Punchline

**A/N: **Warning: There are quite strong adult themes in this chapter. I'd say it's the upper end of T rather than M, but I tend toward being pretty careful about such things, so please do be careful if you're bothered by heavy implications. That having been said, I really like this chapter. R&R! =D**  
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**Part IV: Punchline**

The Joker was bored again. This whole media circus thing had been fun, at first, but the entertainment was palling. It was time to deliver the punchline, time to move on and rid himself from the nuisanceful Doctor Q.

Oh, she was cute, he'd give her that. So pitifully eager for attention and recognition, and at the same time, so firmly devoted to doing the right thing. She wouldn't be shaken from her principles, not even by his wildest illogic. He had to chalk it up to her. The kid had guts.

Unfortunately, he needed to move on. He craved excitement, variety. It was time to kill her and forget her. He hummed as he made his way up to her apartment. "Love 'em and laugh 'em!" he said to himself. "Or is it laugh 'em and leave 'em? No…laugh is an intransitive verb!" Pity.

When he opened the door, he smelled coffee. So his little play-psychiatrist had been burning the midnight oil. It was adorable. Now where was she? She was sharper than the usual tack in the box, he'd give her that. He'd been hoping to make her his adoring slave before he bumped her off. It would've been more fun that way. Ah well, can't win them all.

He poked his head into the bedroom, but found nothing but a bed covered in crumpled sheets and a little teddy-bear. Aw. She still slept with her teddy-bear. Still humming to himself, he shook his head. Doctor Q, Doctor Q. What a mess to leave your bedroom in. He couldn't let the police see his doctor's apartment like this when they came to remove her body.

Carefully, he smoothed out the lumps and pulled up the sheets and the quilt. Then he set the teddy-bear at the head of the bed and made his way out to the kitchen. Here, dirty dishes were piled high and the remains of what seemed to be last night's microwave dinner was sitting on the countertop.

The Joker tutted. This place needed a woman's touch—and she clearly hadn't touched it in a while. Nevertheless, he wasn't about to let a joke go half-finished, so he set himself to cleaning this too.

Once he'd finished, he headed back out into the living room again; this time, he spotted the knocked-over coffee cup and the sprawled figure lying on the couch. "It's always the last place you look, isn't it, Poe?" he said.

She was lying on her back in a pair of pajamas with ducks printed on them. No—not ducks, baby chickens. He peered closer. "Smart Chick," was emblazoned on the front. He chuckled. Hey—not bad!

She looked very peaceful and very young, with her blond hair done up in a pair of pigtails instead of being pinned back the way it normally was. He was going to have to strangle her, of course—it was the only way she'd have time to appreciate the joke before the punchline kicked in.

With just half a sigh, he lowered himself onto the couch and straddled her, placing his hands around her neck.

Her sleepy blue eyes blinked open as he began to squeeze. "Mister J?" she rasped. "What are you doing here?"

And still, somehow, she did not struggle. And when he said softly, "Sorry, Doctor," and bent forward to peer into her eyes, he saw no fear. Only frustration and a little hurt. _God. Damn. It. Why wasn't she afraid of him?_

"Why aren't you afraid of me?" he said, and she blinked and tried to suck in air, but didn't even struggle. Why wouldn't she struggle? A sheep would struggle for its life, even after you slit its throat! But not little Harleen Quinzel! Frustrated beyond belief, he squeezed her thighs tighter between his legs, and she arched her back beneath him in response.

This wasn't right. The joke was going sour. What kind of punchline was it when she wasn't laughing, or crying, or even shocked? Furious, he slapped her, and her face lolled loosely to the side. She didn't even cry out. This was not working.

Shaking with humiliation, he let her go and she gasped for air. "Mister J," she said softly. "You're not supposed to be in my apartment. It's a violation of patient-doctor confidentiality."

He had to shut her up. And there was only one way left.

Fiercely, the Joker bent over her and smashed his lips into hers, rocking her with the ferocity of the kiss. He bit her lower lip until blood came, until she moaned, but it wasn't a moan of pain—good god, couldn't the girl feel any negative emotion other than _insecurity_ and _lack of worth_—and he didn't know what to do, but he had somehow come to the conclusion that he wasn't going to kill her today. Ha—the joke was on him again! Somehow it always was when she was around. The laughter bubbled through his system, rocking his body and hers, and she was moaning again beneath him, and he had decided—_Harls was his_.

* * *

><p>When Harleen opened her eyes and saw his hands around her neck, she was furious. Furious because somehow he had gotten into her apartment. Furious because she had opened up herself to him too much and he'd tracked her down and found her. And even more furious because no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't help him. She couldn't save him from anything. And oh, how she wanted to save him.<p>

"Mister J?" she coughed. "What are you doing here?" If he stopped, maybe they could talk. Maybe she could just _get_ somewhere for a change, but no—his fingers were tightening and Harleen was trapped and stymied at every turn by frustration and anger.

"Sorry, Doctor," he whispered, and she was oddly touched. An apology—so polite. Even when he was trying to murder her, he was politer than her colleagues. So she was a little hurt and upset. Why couldn't she help him?

"Why aren't you afraid of me!" he yelled, and his legs tightened about her—and Harleen felt her body arching beneath him without her control. _This is wrong_, she screamed to herself, but he was the only man who hadn't looked at her in more contempt than everyone else. Even if he held the whole world in contempt, she was no more in contempt than any other sucker on the street.

He let go of her and slapped her, and she tried one more protest. "You're not supposed to be in my apartment. It's a violation of patient-doctor confidentiality."

He kissed her, agonizingly painful and agonizingly beautiful, and Harleen Quinzel, golden girl of Gotham, could do nothing but wriggle and gasp beneath him.


	5. Lullabye

**A/N:**Massive excitement! Because I have the best boyfriend and friends in the universe, I am making this fic into a film! Since ffnet is being a little annoying about letting me put the link in this fic, I'll post it on my profile. We're about 70% done with filming already, and my plan is to post a link to the final product (again on my profile) when I post the last bit of this fic. There isn't much more to it after this chapter-just a short little epilogue. I hope you've enjoyed it and I hope you'll stop by and give the video a look over! =D**  
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**Part V: Lullabye**

The Joker decided he didn't mind the new game after all. He liked the new power he had over his pretty little doctor. It was cute, the desperate way she tried to hide her attraction from him, the way she held her notebook and murmured something about mistakes and unprofessionality and the way she _apologized_ for what she had done. Oh, yes, he liked this newfound power.

Still, the lack of fear in her eyes drove him—well, crazier. He could do anything to her and still she wouldn't be afraid. She wouldn't believe that he would hurt her, or maybe she just didn't care. He hurt her, and she asked him if he had been hurt. He hurt her, and she suggested that he find a more constructive means of getting out his emotions—that one, maybe a little bit tongue-in-cheek, and he had to laugh—but he wouldn't stop. He hurt her, and she took it all in and kept working to _fix_ him.

It was fascinating. He needed to play some more.

He was thinking of a particularly inventive new game to play with Harls—Harley—no more Doctor Q—when he noticed that it was high time for her to be there for his session, and she wasn't.

Harls was never late. She would never be late. A twinge of—uneasiness—rocked him. He hadn't finished with her yet. He didn't want to end the game just yet. Surely they hadn't tried to remove her? Would he have to beat some sense into the good Doctor Arkham _again_?

But then the door to his cell opened. He was careful not to look in that direction; she might think he anticipated her arrival. On the other hand—no sense hurting the poor little girl's feelings. The jerks on staff did that _quite_ often enough. He glanced over.

It wasn't Harley. It was Doctor Arkham, looking sour. He was flanked by two armed guards.

"I'm sorry to tell you that Doctor Quinzel will not be in today," Arkham said. "She's indisposed."

The Joker got up slowly. No sense in taking chances where bullets were concerned. If the guards started firing at him, they might damage his nice new couch and it was _so_ difficult to get purple leather these days.

"Oh?" he said pleasantly. "Why is that?"

"There's been an accident," Arkham said gruffly, nervously edging toward the door.

The Joker stopped caring about the furniture.

Twenty minutes later, and surprisingly with a minimum of bloodshed (he'd only had to shoot two orderlies and threaten a policeman—and one of the orderlies would almost _certainly_ live and maybe even walk again), the Joker was walking into the intensive care unit of Gotham Mercy Memorial Hospital, following the stammering directions of a nurse whom he had cornered and, with some forethought, tied up in a linen closet.

He opened the door.

Harleen Quinzel lay in a small, white bed, her small, white hands barely coming up to touch the top of the covers. Her face was the dead white of heavy blood-loss and an I.V. dripping into her arm carried fluids into her body. Her eyelashes fluttered as the Joker dropped into a chair by her bed.

"Hey there, Harls," he said nonchalantly. "What's going on?"

Harleen felt very strange. There was a pounding pain in her stomach, and her head was light and floating. She could barely concentrate on the Joker's dead white face and scarlet lips.

"Hi," she whispered, the word fluttering through her mouth with a sigh. "I'm glad you came."

"Got to visit my sick chicky!" he snorted. "Next time I'll bring you a book of jokes—laughter is the best medicine!"

She managed a weak chuckle, and then found his hand resting on the coverlet beside hers. She reached for it. "I'm glad you're here," she said, not even caring how unprofessional she was. Everything was so cold…

"What happened?" he asked her.

It all seemed so far away. "I was at the bank," she said dreamily. "I needed some cash."

"Haven't I told you just to _steal _it?" he demanded. She chuckled again, and he looked confused. "All that standing in line…" he waved his hand.

"Some masked guy came in and started threatening everyone," she whispered. Why did her stomach hurt so much?

"Must've needed a withdrawal," the Joker muttered.

"So we all got onto the floor like he said and the teller was giving him some money, and then Batman showed up, with a kid—Robin—they talk about him in the newspapers."

"Ha, the Boy Blunder! Always entertaining when he shows up! Hate the little bastard, myself…"

"And there was a girl with them-Commissioner Gordon's daughter, I think-I've seen her on TV."

The Joker blinked at her. "Barbara Gordon?" He thought rapidly, and his jaw dropped. "Was she wearing a mask?"

"I think so. Anyways...Batman told the thug to give himself up, and they started fighting. And I got up, because there was a woman whose baby was crying and she was worried about it, so I went over. The man dropped his gun, and I thought, well, if I go for it, nobody will get hurt. Only I got there a little late, and Robin had already picked it up. I tried to tell him to be careful with it, but he got bumped from behind—I think Gordon's daughter was struggling with the thug—and the gun went off and…"

Pain speared through her, making her wince. "They gave me painkillers," she murmured. "I wish they were working."

"Where are you hurt? Arm? Leg?"

"I don't…"

The Joker ripped the blankets from the bed.

"Hey," Harleen protested. "I'm cold."

His eyes widened as he saw the red-stained bandages across her midsection. "Harls," he whispered.

Tears welled to her eyes at shock of the cold. "I can't…feel my legs," she whispered. "It's so stupid…I just can't…feel my legs…and I'm so cold…"

He slid into the bed beside her, drawing the blankets up around both of them. "You're going to be just fine," he said, his warmth suffusing the upper half of her body.

"Yes—of course—" she said, and she didn't add, _I have an M.D. you know_, _and I heard the doctors talking._

It was funny how much she had longed for someone to hold her this tightly, for someone to care about her this much, and she was too tired to muster the proper enthusiasm. He turned her face toward him and kissed her; she tried to respond but could not.

Pain shot through her again. "Oh," she whimpered. "It hurts."

"Hold very still," his voice instructed her quietly, and oh, so seriously. "I'm gonna sing you a lullaby."

The Joker himself was assaulted of a faint memory of rocking a blond-haired girl to sleep. _I'll sing you a lullaby._

He began to sing, in a voice that was surprisingly deep and emotional. It cracked a few times, but she wasn't going to complain.

"Good night, my angel, time to close your eyes," he sang, and gently touched her eyelids.

"Is this Billy Joel—" she managed a giggle.

"And save these questions for another day," he sang, poking her back lightly. "I think I know what you've been asking me; I think you know what I've been tryin' to say…"

What had brought on this mood, she wondered. It was funny…he was quite crazy, and she had to be crazy too…

"I promised I would never leave you, and you should always know, wherever you may go—" His voice choked and he began to cough, but before she could voice concern, he continued. "—no matter where you are, I never will be far away."

"That's…sweet, puddin'," she murmured, using a term of endearment she had heard occasionally at home (from her mother, of course).

"Good night, my angel, now it's time to sleep…" Again he touched her eyelids, and she found herself sighing with contentment.

"And still—so many things—I want to say…" He kissed her ear gently. He'd never been gentle before. "Remember all the songs you sang for me, when we went sailing on an emerald bay."

He paused for a long moment, and she felt him shuffling with something in his pocket. "And like a boat out on the ocean, I'm rocking you to sleep…" He tightened his arms about her, rocking her back and forth.

"The water's dark and deep, inside this ancient heart…" His hand moved toward her neck, and he whispered the last line right into her ear, his breath warm on her cheek. "You'll always be a part of me…"

There was a cold little pinprick of pain in her throat, and her heartbeat swelled into her ears, and it was all funny…it was all so…so…funny. Her lips stretched in a wide grin, and she was sinking backwards into a dark, dark tunnel…

The Joker removed the syringe from Harley's throat, and carefully replaced it in his pocket. He brushed a stray lock of hair back from her forehead, kissed his grinning girl gently on the cheek, and whispered to her now-deaf ear, "Robin dies for this…"

_And as for Batgirl…_

**Final A/N: **Just in case anybody doesn't know, information which is fairly relevant for the ending to this chapter: in 1988, both _The Killing Joke_ and _A Death in the Family_ came out. In one, Barbara Gordon was shot by the Joker and paralyzed from the waist down (leading to her becoming Oracle); in the other, the Joker beat Jason Todd to death with a crowbar. _  
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	6. Epilogue: Lazarus

**A/N: **As promised, the last little bit of the story, tying everything together. ;) And, likewise as promised, we finished our film! I've got a link to part 1 posted in my profile, and I'll be adding the links to the other (I want to say five or six?) parts as they are uploaded (because it takes forEVER!) **  
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**Epilogue: Lazarus**

_It was warm. Dark. She was covered in some kind of horrid jelly-like substance._

_ "Euch!" she gasped, sitting up. Green slime on her arms, her legs, her face. With disgust, she tried to wipe it off, but it clung to her like silly putty. No…silly putty didn't cling, silly! Like pudding!_

_ Pudding…she could do with some pudding right about now…or some puddin'. Shouldn't she be getting back to her puddin'? Wait, who was she thinking about? Who was she?_

_ She looked down at herself. God—she was _naked! _What was she doing here? Where was here? Who was she?_

_ She pulled a strand of her now green-slimed hair toward her. Blond. So she had blond hair, and she was looking for her true love! Yes, that was it! Like, a fairytale princess or something! Her true love…Mistah J! Yeah…and her name…_

_ Fuzzy words batted about in her brain and gradually grew to fruition. Harley…Quinn. She giggled. There was a pun there somewhere, she just knew it._

_ Somewhere far above her, two figures watched the poor naked girl as she flailed her arms about, slowly pulling herself out of the pit._

_ "Well, she looks intact," Ra's al Ghul said dryly. _

_ "Yes," said Jeremiah Arkham slowly. "Her behavior does seem somewhat—"_

_ "Erratic. Yes. That is a side-effect of the Lazarus Pit. It should fade in time—assuming that her brain was not suffering from an extreme chemical imbalance when she died."_

_ "Oh, I don't think that's likely. She died of a gunshot wound."_

_ "And you are certain that this will keep the clown in check?" Ra's al Ghul queried slowly. "The detective will be suspicious about her reappearance, and it would be terrible if you created a—queen—for the Joker."_

_ Jeremiah Arkham shied briefly away from the thought of the pictures he had seen of Jason Todd's mutilated body. "I have every reason to believe it will work."_

_ Below them, the newly-christened Harley Quinn laughed and wondered when she got to see her Mistah J. Fragments of a Billy Joel song danced in her memory and then slowly faded._


End file.
